


You Take Me Higher Than I've Gone

by talkingtothesky



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e17 Proteus, Established Relationship, Flying, Inspired By Tumblr, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Romantic Fluff, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 05:36:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6643489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/pseuds/talkingtothesky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John asks Finch if they can go on a date in his private two-seater plane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Take Me Higher Than I've Gone

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to comtessedebussy for [the idea on tumblr](http://comtessedebussy.tumblr.com/post/143304048040/comtessedebussy-casual-reminder-that-harold).
> 
> Thanks to violentdaylight for suggesting the title, which is from Take Me Higher by Old Man Canyon.
> 
> Disclaimer: I know nothing about light aircraft. Any detail in this fic has been gleaned from five minutes on Google. Please correct me if I'm horribly wrong about something.

When John asks, Finch takes him up in the de Havilland. He also has a Caproni, a Beechcraft and a remodelled British bomber plane that was actually flown in World War 2, Harold is quick to inform him, but John wants it to be the same plane Finch flew through a severe storm just to get to him. In John's experience, there are romantic gestures, and then there's _that_. Harold has always gone above and beyond anyone John's ever known.

 

John can fly, himself, has carried out missions and parachuted into enemy territories and once survived an uncontrolled descent in a fighter jet, so he shouldn't be as impressed as he is that Finch can do this. But Finch is a civilian. He takes to the sky with exploration as his only objective, and that's what John's second chance at life should be about.

 

Up in the air, sitting side by side with Harold, John adjusts his sunglasses and lets the sunshine warm him. Harold's hands are very gentle and steady on the controls. John has been allowing himself to surreptitiously watch him as he adjusts dials, checks gauges, keeping up a murmured commentary to himself so he doesn't forget anything, especially on take-off. Harold is especially rigorous with his pre-flight checks. John refrains from pointing out that he would trust Harold with both their lives in this thing any day. He has stood on a rooftop with a bomb on his chest and said _Pick a winner_ \- compared to that, this is easy.

 

"When did you have your first flying lesson?" John asks him, when they are comfortably cruising at 14,000ft. Harold has visibly relaxed, shoulders back against the plush cream leather seat, thumbs tapping lightly at the wheel. He has switched out his usual black frames with a larger pair of sunglasses, and the corners of his mouth keep quirking up. John's heart expands, to see him so content.

 

At John's question, though, Harold's eyebrows go up. Perhaps John is not going to catch him off-guard after all. He gives John an amused, sidelong glance, and then he says: "I am a man who uses mainly bird-themed aliases, Mr Reese. I think we can safely assume I was quite young."

 

John stretches in his seat, shifts his weight more onto his left hip so he can lean towards Harold, offer up his most alluring smirk. "Yeah, but. Details."

 

Harold laughs, shakes his head. "You never stop asking, do you." His tone is fond, exasperated.

 

John puts his elbow on the armrest, rests his cheek on his knuckles. "Of course. I wish I could know everything about you." John knows enough by now, in all honesty. He knows Harold's favourite foods and the locations of dozens of his safehouses. He knows about the people Harold loved before he met John. John knows how Finch got injured and why he built The Machine, while only a handful of people in the world even know it exists. He knows what Harold looks like when he's sleeping, the mess his hair gets into first thing in the morning. But John still asks, because it feels amazing every time Finch takes a brick out of his walls and rebuilds them with John inside.

Harold stares at him, looking almost sad. "John..." He starts, and then swallows.

 

John reaches out, touches his fingertips lightly to Harold's elbow for a moment, then backs off. "It's okay. I'm not pushing." He sits up straight in his chair again. He can look out of the window for a bit, instead of gazing at Harold. There's an entire ocean beneath them, glittering in the daylight.

 

"Here," Harold says, softly. John turns his head to find Harold offering him the wheel. "All yours."

 

John smiles wide, and takes control. "Thank you." He gets what Harold isn't saying: _I trust you_. All John has to do is keep it level. He's not trying to keep a helicopter with four wounded guys in the air while ground missiles aim at them.

 

"I would like to tell you everything, but I can't." Harold explains regretfully, eyes fixed on the skyline himself now. "I've been running for too long."

 

Very carefully, John takes one hand off the wheel and squeezes Harold's fingers. "It's fine, Finch, really."

 

Harold cradles John's hand in his lap. He strokes John's palm with his thumb before twining their fingers loosely together. "You really are okay with it, aren't you?" There's a fragile wonder in his tone. "I love you for that."

 

John's heart _twists_. His eyes flutter closed and the plane soars momentarily before John reaches out and sets it to autopilot. "Harold," he gasps, roughly, and leans over the space between their seats to kiss him.

 

Harold squeezes John's fingers tight, cups John's jaw with his other hand. John can do nothing but kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him. When he'd asked for this date and suggested the plane he hadn't counted on this much happiness. He feels so weightless and free, as though they are the only two people in the world, and _Harold_ _loves him_. He's going to be walking on air for weeks, even after they are back on the ground. When he dies, it all will have been worth it.

 

Harold's hand at the nape of his neck, tugging John back so they can breathe. He chuckles, slides both their sunglasses to the top of their heads, out of the way. "I take it you feel the same?"

 

"God, yes." John's mouth is eager, pressing kisses to Harold's chin, and jaw, and eyebrow. "I love you, Harold."

 


End file.
